I tend to be a rather obsessive person. When I’m into something, I’m in it to win it. This is good for things like diets and bad for things like a friendly game of air hockey with the husband. When I was pregnant, we had to forgo trips to the arcade lest I maim myself or unborn child due to the illogical amount of vigor with which I approach that activity. I’ve never played a game of air hockey that I didn’t wake up sore the next morning from pushing down so hard on the whatever-it’s-called.

Back to the point. I’m perilously close to becoming a rabid amateur photographer. My dad knows quite a bit about it and was really into it when we were growing up. I’m excited about possibly learning from him, but nervous because I don’t want him to be disappointed if I turn out to be the photographer equivalent of a primate.

This potential new undertaking is also dangerous for many reasons : I know absolutely nothing about photography, which means it will take quite some time before I’m any good at it. This is especially worrisome because I tend to abandon and or scorn any activities at which I do not excel (remember the basketball diatribe?). Also, this is not a cheap hobby. Rock collecting, that’s something you can do without impacting the family budget. And I go all out, remember? I’d be wanting to load up like a full time paparazzi from the get-go.

What’s most concerning to me, though, is that I will start to look at photos of Andrew with an even more critical eye. I already get bent of of shape when I accidentally cut off the top of his head or leave out an errant toe. What else will I find to judge once I actually have a vague sense of what I’m doing?

For the moment I’m dipping my toes in by editing images shot using the idiot settings (read: settings for idiots, not that the settings themselves are inept in any way) on my fancypants camera. I like this one, even though I’ve somehow made him look like a redhead:

And this one is my new computer background:

So, what say you, internets? Do you have any dire warnings or welcome encouragement to send my way?

Last night when Mr. Aggie unknowingly bequeathed me an improperly diapered babe, who proceeded to turn our bed into a swimming pool, I didn’t say aloud all the defamatory thoughts in my head.

When I had to get up and change the unwitting offender, resulting in a state of complete and total alertness instead of the desired snooze-a-thon, I didn’t yell at my spouse.

When I couldn’t sleep even though Mr. Aggie said he’d take Stinks into the living room, I didn’t play opposum just to punish him.

When I saw that Mr. Aggie had Stinks pointed directly at the blaring TV instead of rocking him in a dark corner, I didn’t berate him.

When Andrew wouldn’t go to sleep until 12:15, I didn’t dangle him, screaming, over Mr. Aggie’s side of the bed.

When the cat started trying to claw at Andrew’s head, sneezed on us several times, and then found a noisy toy to chase around the living room all moments after Andrew dozed off, I didn’t follow through on any of my muttered threats of dismemberment.

When I took Andrew back to bed at 1:00 but couldn’t fall asleep myself, I didn’t throat punch my snoring husband.

At 5:30 this morning when I asked Mr. Aggie to get Stinks dressed and changed while I took I shower and instead found Stinks crying like a crazy person while my husband moaned ineffectually at him without waking up before I could even get the water to the proper temperature, I didn’t hit Mr. Aggie in the head with a cast iron skillet.

When I got Stinks and myself completely ready to leave for work while Mr. Aggie continued to snooze, I didn’t drop an anvil on his manparts.

When I had to turn a light on, I didn’t light up the place like the flippin’ Fourth of July, complete with fireworks and a marching band.

When I left for work, crying baby in-tow, I didn’t give Mr. Aggie the finger.

I don’t know that I can claim full credit for the last one, since I’m pretty sure I only resisted because I knew it wouldn’t be effective given that Mr. Aggie was—you guessed it—still sleeping.

My husband is a fabulous father and a very supportive spouse, but last night and this morning helped me understand how some marriages are irreparably damaged by child-rearing. It’s exhausting and stressful, and the only person who truly understands your misery is too miserable himself to offer much sympathy. It’s a breeding ground for one-up-manship and resentment and an open invitation to scorekeeping and judgement. It would be a completely crap deal except for this:

ETA: I just saw that it says below that I have to do the exercises twice a week. It’s actually twice a DAY. Wishful thinking on my part.

This is going to be way, way TMI. If you have both an X and Y chromosome, you need to leave. Now.

For those of you left, if you don’t want to visualize me having to stretch my perineum you need to chuck the deuces also.

Everyone else have their helmets? Then let’s get started.

To put the following in perspective for you, there was a part where he said “I’m going to put my finger in your rectum.” By the conclusion of the visit, that didn’t even register on the trauma scale.

Today I had a date with Dr. Doom for my yearly girly check-up. I had two concerns to address: contraception in case I ever decide to have sex again (jury was still out after an epic FAIL our first attempt) and the fact that I still can’t poop without bleeding/almost passing out from pain.

The initial nurse asked what birth control I was using and wasn’t amused when my response was “having a newborn.” Apparently that method fails in many cases, which I totally don’t understand.

Once we finally got to the big show I was a hot mess, owing mostly to the fact that the appointment was running over into my usual pumping time so my girls were soaking the paper gown. Hot. Dr. Doom got settled into position, as did I, and I started making my usual jokes. That’s when I knew things were bad. I was bringing some good material and neither the nurse or the doctor were even cracking a smile.

After thorough investigation (including probing the previously mentioned rectum) he concluded that scar tissue was to blame for all of my pain. Basically my surgically-reconstructed junk has developed some significant internal scar tissue that I have to stretch out if I ever want to have sex again. I am apparently the only interested party who is considering celibacy as an acceptable course of action, so I have to start pressing on the tissue for five minutes a day twice a week. It has to be done in counts of ten, rest, repeat. It hurts like hell.

I don’t know how I’ll ever leave the house in a positive state of mind after starting my day self-inflicting searing junk pain. Only the horror of Plan B can motivate me to follow through: without significant improvement in two weeks, Dr. Doom says he may have to go in and cut out the tissue, then Frankenstein me all over again. He’s only had to do it twice in his career, so he’s probably not even very good at it.

He’s also going to have to laser off some internal vaginal scar tissue. He says he “doesn’t think” it will hurt. I don’t see how anyone could have their ladybits Star-Warred without wincing so we’ll see.

For contraception I think he gave me a script for an estrogen-free bc pill, but I don’t even know what I did with it. Like I said, sex isn’t really on my priority list at the moment.

I am home alone for the first time since Andrew was born. I’ve got a lot to say about my date with Dr. Doom, and it will involving harrowing terms like “laser” and “granular tissue” and “I might have to go back in there, cut out the scar tissue and sew it up again” which I will explain in even more detail at a later time.

But for now, I’m going to go take my first real nap in ten weeks. Andrew and Mr. Aggie will be home around 5:30 so time’s a wastin’.